Roof Hockey is Dangerous to You
by General Chaos
Summary: Deadly, violent, FULL-CONTACT BLOODSPORTS! Oh, and violent women. And the roof of an otherwise blameless paranormal agency being put to unconventional use. Yes, the author is experiencing a Sugar Event.


Yes, the author is on crack. Thank you.  
No, you don't know who Anne is. She's a character from "Rake at the Gates of Annwn," a much longer and more bloated DMC fic I percolate in my head and get more bloated by the day.  
Yes, I have DNC located in Washington DC. Why? Because I felt like it. I know the place fairly well. Plus, hey, demonic activity in the nation's capital. Can't go wrong with that.  
Yes, I like doing odd things to Dante. One so often does strange things to the character one loves, especially when you think it might add to their moral fiber, and make them pixelate where giant lava-dripping spiders don't.  
No, I don't have DMC. Not for lack of desire though. To remedy this lack, please send me 350 dollars to an address I'll give if I hear of expressed interest in charity. :)  
Yes, I watched _Clerks_ more times than is healthy for a single female. I'm so sorry. (sob).  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
In the distance, the Washington Monument and the Capitol. In the foreground, a grubby section of Washington DC. In near focus, a grubby building in the grubby section. On the roof, three people. two blankets at opposite ends of the roof, and a great deal of asphalt.  
Two of them were glaring at each other.   
One was tall, blonde, and had hair tied back in a tight braid that went to midback. She was also wearing a black tank top, black lycra bicycle shorts, a helmet, and knee and elbow pads, to go with her rollerblades and hockey stick.  
The other also wore rollerblades, carried a hockey stick, and was female. There the resemblance ended, because *she* was shorter, fragile looking, wearing plaid boxers, and had shoulder-length black hair in a sort of indecisive feathery cut down to shoulders. Knees and elbows were duct taped. A hideous hawaiian shirt hung on her slender body like a tent.  
There was also, for some reason, a metal colander with a plush chicken strapped on on the top on her head.  
The third person pondered the Antagonism Energy generation from being between the two of them, whether it could be used to power his business, and held up a tennis ball in one gloved hand. There was even higher tension now as blue and silver-brown eyes narrowed.  
The ball dropped.  
Bloodcurdling screams erupted from both sides as the two one-woman hordes rushed together into collision. The third leaped out of the way spectacularly as the sides came together in a godawful clash of hockey sticks and swearing.  
He peered from over the edge of the roof at the ensuing bloodshed.  
*Man, I'm glad I'm out of *that*,* Dante decided.  
  
"And the Cymry Colanders take posession! Evans moves for the goal! Evans....gets the puck stolen by the opposing team, namely Trish Sparda who's really BEING REALLY UNSPORTING ABOUT USING SUPERIOR HEIGHT AND REFLEXES GIVE ME THAT BACK YOU BIMBO!"  
"I AM NOT A BIMBO! DIIIIEEE!" The rumble of rollerblades turned into a massive roar as the smaller player tried desperately to get around the guard of the taller, hoping the goalie would save, realizing she *was* the goalie, and bawled something about Wayne Gretzky to psyche herself up. This didn't work so she called on her Inner Welsh Person to smack it out of reach, causing an amusing cascade effect wherein it ricocheted off the lip of the roof and bounced off the other player's derriere and then off the plush helmet chicken of the first player. The plush chicken had no input on the situation.  
"WAUGH!"  
There was a sigh from well below as the phone rang.  
"Devil Never Cry Demolition Services, how do you want your place destroyed today?" There was a pause. "No, that was a joke. Sorry."  
  
  
"AAAHHH! BITCH!"  
"NAC MAC FEEGLE!"  
"What the Hell is *that*?"  
"I donno! HEY, MY BALL! BACK, BACK! I SUMMON THE SPIRIT OF MARIO LEMIEUX!"  
"He's NOT DEAD!"  
"AskmeificareTRISH!"  
"You'reHIGHSTICKING! REFEREE!"  
"AM NOT! BIIIIIITCH!"  
"YO MAMA!" *WHAM* smack *THUD*   
"*YO* MAMA!" *WHAM*  
*pause*  
"...Uh.....Anne?"  
"Yeah, Trish?"  
"We uh...lost the ball."  
"Who gets it this time?"  
"I got it last time."  
"You knocked it off *now*."  
"You get the ball."  
"Like hell."  
"Okay. DANTE gets the ball!"  
Dante poked his head out from the first floor window. "LIKE HELL I WILL!"  
"Not even a *little* bit?"  
"No!"  
"Not even if I sang 'Elanor Rigby' at you until you relented?"  
"Or his Devil Trigger went off out of pure annoyance?" Trish inquired.  
"Would the colors be especially sparkly?"  
Dante poked his head above the level of the roof again. "Anne....now, I know you're kind of sort of maybe amnesiac, but you worry me."  
Anne skidded over and beamed at him cutely below the plush chicken, which looked at him beadily. Anne was looking chirpy, in the kind of way Charles Mason might look chirpy. Dante didn't seem consoled by this, at all. Given this was a man that took down the Devil Emperor and shut down his entryway to the mortal world in the fine tradition of his demonic father, this is saying something. Trish was meanwhile leaning over the roof, trying to detect the tragectory of their lost 'puck.'  
"*There* it is." She bounded off the roof, forgot she was still wearing rollerblades, and spent an instructive couple of seconds on the ground screaming as she tried not to run into a nearby storefront.   
"Trish just worries me period," Dante added.  
"She's come along well. I'm so *sob* proud of her."  
"That's *why* she worries me."  
Anne beamed.  
"Now I just need to work on you."  
"Like *hell* you do."  
"I do!"  
"You do *not*."  
"To dream the impossible dream." Anne's pretty, catlike face looked saintly. Dante's own narrow face looked.....highly dubious. She batted her eyes at him. He replied by slapping free palm into silver hair.  
A fortyish black man joined Dante in poking his head cautiously above the roof. "Hey, Dante, man."  
Dante's ice green eyes tracked over to the other man. "Hey, Leon."  
"I heard screaming. You okay?"  
Dante shrugged. "Yeah. My sister and her roommate are just on crack."  
"Five cans of Coke. Per." Anne interjected, swigged down another Coke from the cooler, and let loose with a mighty belch. Dante looked impressed and disgusted at once at this feat.  
Leon nodded sagely, ignoring the belch. "Coronas?  
"Yeah, why not. Leon, this is Anne Evans. She's mostly Welsh and completely nuts. Annie, this is Leon Marley. He's mostly Jamacian and sane."  
"Nice chicken."  
"Thanks. I wore it especially."  
"Cool." Leon shook hands with the woman, and hauled up a six pack. "How dangerous is it?"  
"What dangerous?"  
"Bein' near ground zero of the match."  
"We get drunk enough, we won't care, Leon."  
"Damn good point. Let's get going."  
"I....HATE.....ROLLERBLADES!" Trish screamed, vaulting back up and doing a repeat performance of her street landing on a higher altitude. "OW! DAMMIT!"  
Dante wolf-whistled. "Nice butt-mop, Trish!"  
Trish threw her stick at him, causing Dante to duck. "I WILL take Sparda and wrap it around your neck, so help me, Dante."  
"WHA HAE, SCOTS!" *BURP*  
"Never a dull moment with you, man," Leon observed. "Especally recently. Where *did* you pick them up?"  
"I got them at a discount. I can pretend they're my posse of fillies." Two sticks were launched at Dante simultaneously. "OW! Crap."  
"Jerk." Trish nodded sagely in agreement to Anne.  
"Need coke."  
"Here's one." Trish swigged.  
"Need good reason to throw another sword at Dante."  
"We're getting there."  
"Need world peace, cheaper rent, and a younger Pierce Brosnan."  
"You're on your own there. But if there's a clone of Pierce, let me know."  
"Round two?"  
"Gimme a second."  
"You're not Scottish, you know."  
"Yeah, your point?" 


End file.
